Carry Your Candle
by August Fai
Summary: Lighting a candle was never hard until Harry found out what the real meaning of lighting one was. HD slash with a pinch of HG.


Carry Your Candle

'_Carry your candle, run to the darkness...hold out your candle for all to see it, take your candle, go light your world.'_

–Go Light Your World

**I. Harry**

Harry Potter was never a religious person. The only time he had willingly stepped into a church was to attend the funeral of Draco Malfoy, and since then he had been estranged to churches altogether.

In the household of Dursley, the aunt, uncle, and cousin were the type of people that went to church only on Christmas and Easter–the 'bi-goers', he had heard they were called. Aunt Petunia saw no point in dallying out on a Sunday morning when she could be scrubbing her already immaculate table or fussing over her never immaculate Duddykins, and Uncle Vernon had no patience for religion; a one-hour mass gave him cramps, he stated roughly. So of course Harry did not know the ritual of the candles.

That is an exaggeration. There is no 'ritual' to the candles, they are merely stands upon stands of wax and wick in stained-glass bottles that are displayed in church. But they are not there for decoration. They are models of remembrance; of remorse; of prayer; of soul and light, and to light one does just not mean picking up a stick, igniting the wick, and putting a pound or two in the box. To light one of those candles is to say, "I remember. I love you. I'm lighting this for you."

In particular, that is what pains Harry the most about it: the fact of _why_ he must light the candle.

**II. Ginny**

Ginny Weasley, who seemed to be the only chipper person nowadays, with her bright red hair and her illuminated complexion, had appeared at his door one day with her jaw set and her eyes clouded with intention. She certainly did not look like a twenty-three year old woman who had lost three brothers in a war. Sometimes, Harry thought, she tried too hard, what with her loud voice and her pale complexion that she tried to keep rosy, but then again, he remembered, we all try too hard sometimes.

"Ginny, what are you doing here?" Harry asked as he opened his door to find her standing there. He wish it didn't, but the sight of her annoyed him. She was pale, like Draco, only minus the freckles scattered across her face. It was the last thing he needed: a reminder. "It's Sunday, why are you in London?"

"Good morning to you too, Harry," she replied softly, but with a smile.She seemed a bit down that day, Harry recalled. "I've come to ask if you want to come with me to–"

She stopped short, looking past him and into his flat, as if to wonder whether she should continue.

"Yes? To?" Harry prodded, wanting to either get out of his flat or stay there and wallow, but nowhere in between.

"To church," she finally finished. "There's one by here. It's small, but it will do. I was going to go and..." she swallowed. "...light some candles."

He remembered wondering why in the world she would want to go to a church just to light a candle, but then he remembered that the Weasleys were semi-religious, and Ginny, what with her family so broken now, was probably more than just a bi-goer. He supposed that the candles meant something painful, judging by the look in her eyes as she said it.

"Harry, I think you should go," she said, mistaking his silence for refusal. "It will be good for you, if you go and light a candle for–" he watched her deflate. "–him."

_Oh. _Understanding came to him at once as she said 'him' in a small voice, avoiding his eyes and shuffling her feet. _So it's for him then, is it._ His first reaction was to hit the wall and demand why so many people were coming to him and asking him how he was, was he doing fine, did he miss Draco–well _no, _he was not fucking fine, _yes, _he was in a fucking state of agony, and _of bloody course _he missed Draco like hell. There was no one beside him in the morning anymore, no one to smirk at everything he said, no one to sling an arm around his shoulder and kiss his cheek sloppily in the mornings. Ginny had not asked anything of the sort, but she bloody well might have, considering what lighting a candle meant, and everything. He didn't want to remember anymore. If it was going to hurt him like this–a pang in his side every morning when he got up and when he saw anything, the littlest thing, that reminded him of Draco–then he might as well just throw everything away...

"I don't want to go alone, Harry," Ginny finally said, meeting his eyes for the first time since she had rung his doorbell, and he saw the little eleven-year-old in them that he had rescued so long ago. "Come with me."

Or maybe remembering was what he _needed _to do.

Harry could have told her to jerk off, _no, _he wasn't going to go with her because the past was the past and it hurt him too much to remember lips and eyes and hair and voice and demeanor. He could have slammed the door in her face. He could have started crying on the spot, even–but he didn't.

Harry Potter took his coat off the hook and his keys off the table and went with Ginny Weasley to light a candle.

**III. Draco**

Ginny was right–the church was nearby, and Harry had wondered why he never noticed it, and she was also right in saying it was small, because it was only a tad bigger than Hagrid's hut. But as soon as he walked in, he saw them: stand upon stand of flame and wax and wicks, stretching out across one small wall of the church, looking like a large inferno instead of an offering.

"Ginny, I don't..." he began to say, but she pushed him forward towards a stand of non-lit candles, which looked to Harry like white cold glaciers. "What are they _for, _anyway?"

"You don't know?" She looked at him bewilderingly, and he nodded nervously. "Well, I thought...nevermind," she said. "When you light a candle in church, it means you want to remember someone who you can't see anymore, to tell them that you love them and that–that you're still thinking of them."

Harry stared. It was if she had read his mind of all the things he did _not _want to do: remember. If he remembered, it would just finalize everything–finalize everything that happened, and end things he wish would never have to be ended. Lighting that candle, feeling the flame in his hands, and praying for Draco's lost soul–it would mean that he was really gone and that nothing, not even a candle and a prayer, could bring him back.

And yet maybe it was all for the better that he did end everything. He would always love Draco, anyone who said otherwise was a nasty lying prat. He would always remember the feeling of his cheek against Harry's own and the way his cheekbones made justified shadow in the moonlight. He would always remember, and never forget, the memories of Hogwarts and Draco, of broom closets and secret glances and private conversations. In a way, he really was just putting everything to rest, and that was what Harry wanted: rest. Memories, memories, loads of memories, and rest, all of it, at rest.

"It will help you," she told him as he warily stepped forward. "Go on. Light a candle."

He picked up a stick and lit the end.

**IV. Candle**

Some may also say that everyone carries a candle inside of them, and whether it is burning or not, it does not matter, because it is there. The candle is a sign of life, of soul, of love. Everyone carries one, and some may even carry two: of a loved one that is no longer there to carry their own candle anymore.

As Harry Potter lit an empty candle, he closed his eyes and sighed.

_Do you remember, Draco, that time in seventh year when you said that you could always handle everything and that no one could stop you, even if they tried? You little self-centered prick, _he smiled, _you're wrong. Because I'm here now. And you can give me everything you couldn't have when you were here._

_I love you. I still will._

The flame flickered brightly and promisingly.

As Harry Potter walked into church that day, he carried one candle. As he walked out, he carried two.


End file.
